


No mercy

by RavenMockheart



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clintasha - Freeform, F/M, Gen, don't mess with tasha's coffee, she will /kill/ you, well - if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 03:38:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2717456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenMockheart/pseuds/RavenMockheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint stormed into Natasha’s (cell) room – something so sudden and unexpected that she startled just enough to spill the coffee that had been resting on her bent knees on the front of her grey SHIELD-issued shirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No mercy

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Stay](https://archiveofourown.org/works/804364) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



> I read 'Natasha spills her coffee' and I just-

Clint stormed into Natasha’s (cell) room – something so sudden and unexpected that she startled just enough to spill the coffee that had been resting on her bent knees on the front of her grey SHIELD-issued shirt.

“Tash, hey!” he said with her back to her, closing the door. “Sorry I was gone so long. They send me on mission to Tehran, all classified and, you know, unexpected-like. I mean, you know SHIELD. And-” The rest of his sentence petered out as he looked at Natasha, who was now sitting cross-legged on her bed with a dark brown, still-steaming stain stretching from just below her left collarbone to her stomach. She was staring daggers at Clint.

If his reflexes hadn’t been so fast, Clint knew, the coffee cup that came flying out of seemingly nowhere would’ve shattered against his forehead instead of the door. As it was, the _clang!_ reverberating through the halls was the result of ceramic-on-metal rather than ceramic-on-Clint.

“ _Jesus_ , Tash-”

Natasha snorted. She’d been with SHIELD for about four and a half months, and they still kept her locked in a small apartment that had only a bedroom and a bathroom. She hadn’t been allowed ceramic mugs for tea and coffee until just about a month ago; until then she’d had to make do with plastic cups and the beverage in question just didn’t taste the same out of a plastic cup. “That was my only coffee for the day.”

“Yeah, but-”

“ _And_ ,” she continued calmly, getting up from the bed and approaching Clint, who was watching her warily, “if this little stunt of yours gets my mug rights taken away again you’ll wish that I had hit your head instead.”

She poked him in the chest with a vengeance, making him stumble back a step, then turned and stalked away from Clint. She had a spare set of clothes in a drawer that had no front, probably so that she couldn’t hide a weapon in there. Psh. As if she needed a weapon. She tossed the clean shirt on her bed.

“I missed you too,” he said behind her, with that sarcasm she had come to… appreciate over the months he had helped her ground herself. Despite the sarcasm, her heart did a little skipping thing which she chose not to examine too closely.

Natasha dragged her ruined shirt over her head and poked the skin the coffee had soaked. It was a lot redder than her skin usually was, and tender when she pressed it. It wasn’t so bad, though. She huffed a breath. God knows she’d had much, much worse over the years.

Clint had stopped talking, she noted vaguely, and she smiled to herself. She might not get paid for it anymore, but she apparently still knew how to stun any man (and most women, too) into silence.

“ _Everyone on the floor!_ ”

Natasha’s vision tinged blue, her body screaming _threatthreatthreat_ as she spun and was faced with someone in black fatigues holding Clint to the wall. Four more army types barreled into her, and she took one second’s pause to notice their wide eyes as they looked her up and down, then pummeled them, twisting, turning, hooking one man’s legs with her own and dislocating his shoulder before dispatching another with a kick to the groin. Not graceful, perhaps, but effective.

All four men went down, and she looked up from where she was sitting on the back of one of them – straight into Phil Coulson’s eyes. She had to hand it to him. His eyes never strayed further down than her neck.

Telegraphing every move, he reached out and grabbed her shoulder. “We heard a crash.”

Natasha nodded, her eyes still wide, body still coming down from her battle-high. “I threw my coffee mug at Clint and hit the door instead.”

One of Phil’s eyebrows lifted about a millimeter, which was something akin to a shout of surprise for him.

"It was my fault, though," Clint piped up from the corner. “Turns out she’s twitchy. And passionate about coffee.”

Phil looked at the carnage around her. “Really.” Then he turned a critical eye on Natasha. “Ms. Romanov – why are you not wearing a shirt?”

**Author's Note:**

> First Clintasha. I don't even know anymore.
> 
> The title is from the song of the same name by Racoon.


End file.
